Mr. Fiancé(137)

Coach runs out of the tunnel with the other coaches, leaving just us twenty-five seniors. It's our last home game, and Coach dressed a couple of guys from the scout team who busted their asses the past four years, giving them their time in the sun. The crowd is nuts, with big cheers even as these guys go out, their helmets glittering in the fall sun.

“Sucks that your girl can't be sideline for this,” Tyler says as the defensive starting seniors are introduced. "You know, being part of the cordon and all."

"Nah, she's got seats at the fifty-yard line. I offered to her parents, but they said no, so I think she gave them to a couple of her classmates. I don't know. Either way, she's up there, so it’s all good.”

"From Monte Sereno, California. Tight end, number eighty-three, Duncan Hart!"

"Excuse me, time for my entrance."

The PA system is playing music, a remixed version of Queen's Princes of The Universe that somebody picked out because of my first name and my dark hair, but I can't hear anything over the physical roar of the crowd as I walk out, my arms crossed over my chest, walking out a few yards before throwing my arms out, letting the joy and roar of the crowd move me. It's different now than before, and talking with Carrie has helped me so much. I still love the crowd, I love the feeling, but I know there’s something even more important out there. When I get to the logo, I turn to the home side, where I pick out Carrie in her seat and point to her.

She sees me, and she points back, her words lost in the roar before it's Tyler's turn, and the rest of the offensive seniors. We get ready, and it's game time.

We take the opening kickoff and start from our twenty-seven.

I line up tight and drop into a three-point stance. We're playing against Washington Poly, a good team that's got a bowl berth already, but it isn't in the mix for the conference title anymore. If we win, we play Clement for the conference title next week. If we lose—well, we don't.

The WP defensive end is nearly bug-eyed as he gets into his stance, growling at me. "I'ma fuck you up today, pretty boy.”

The ball snaps, and we crash into each other, helmet to helmet, and I'm trying to drive him. I get my shoulder to the inside like I need, at least, and I push the end out, away from the run before the ball is blown dead on a four-yard gain. "Just wait, bitch. I've got your ass."

"Who the fuck is that guy?" I wonder as I go back to the huddle. “Is he trying to be me or something?”

"Don't you remember?" Tyler asks, laughing. “You showed him up pretty bad last year, and I’m sure you rubbed it in good after. I think he’s got it in for you.”

"Oh, yeah," I recall, thinking back to last year's WP game. It was a night game, though I didn’t quite remember the specifics. It was just another game for me.

Dropping into my stance, I get ready to run my route, a release to the flat that could net us good yardage.

I fire off, spinning off the defensive end who overextended himself trying to fight me, and into the flat. Tyler sees me open and tosses it nicely. I snag the pass and turn up field, getting tackled by two men for a twelve-yard gain. We’re off to a good start, and as Tyler comes over, he’s grinning. "We’ve got this. Clement, here we come."

The drive continues, and I line up on the left side, standing up as we spread the field, and when the ball snaps, I pop the linebacker covering me, going over the middle on a crossing X pattern. I turn and see the ball and catch it, going up before the free safety hits me, stopping my momentum. The ball blows dead, and I get to my hands and knees when suddenly, a huge weight crushes into my back, and I feel my elbow give way in a crunching snap that causes me to scream. A scuffle breaks out between the teams, but I can't do anything but lie on the turf, holding my arm and trying to stop screaming, it hurts so damn bad.



"How is it, Coach?"

We're at University Hospital, and I'm still in my game pants, but they took off my shoulder pads, although I wish they hadn't cut my jersey off. I liked that jersey. It lasted me through a year and a half without being replaced.

Coach Thibedeau shakes his head. "We don't know yet, Duncan. The doc's going to get the X-rays back in a few minutes and—"

"Not me, Coach. The game. Did we win?"

Coach swallows, then shakes his head. "Thirteen to seventeen. We couldn't punch it through for one last touchdown."

"Who did it? I never saw who hit me."

"The defensive end . . . Petersen. He got ejected for it, at least."

I chuckle mirthlessly, then look out the window. "So Clement and Willamette for the conference championship."

Coach Thibs nods, then comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Don't sweat it. You did everything possible, all season long. Twelve hundred plus yards receiving, twenty-one touchdowns . . . those are conference records that'll stand for a long time among tight ends."